


It's a terrible love and I'm walking with spiders

by merrythoughts



Series: Don't you smile like you smile 'less you mean it [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood Kink, Dysfunctional Relationships, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 19:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15541767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: It's always felt this way, like he's stealing from you, forcing you... Muscles sore, wounds aching, but your mind is quiet.





	It's a terrible love and I'm walking with spiders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReallyMissCoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/gifts).



> I entirely blame Dapperscript for me both liking and writing this pairing. I'm also a pretentious wannabe douchebag who likes this second person pov. Well, whatever. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Writing smut by yourself is weird and especially in this pov but we all need more smut for this pairing, okayyyy. I'm doing the lord's work, I'm sure of it. I may write more later, we shall see...

There's dried blood on him, but his skin has healed itself back together as it always does. You're not so lucky. Still human, aren't you? Frankly, you like the reminder. Every dance with this devil leaves you with new shallow wounds, a pattern of bruises and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You're both bloody, but you're also both fucked-out and exhausted. He's sprawled out on the bed, hotel sheets a lost cause, his hair even worse. His breathing is even and you watch his chest rise and fall.

You're not young men anymore, you're not high school kids stealing rushed kisses in the locker room or in a janitor's closet. You've both had your own forays into hell, you've both lost and lost and lost--

You think you like these moments best, when he's finally _not_ yammering, when he's not attempting to piss you off. It's usually his goading, his incessant, aggravating jabs that incite you to push him against the door - whatever door in whatever hotel room you happen to be staying at - and start something.

You've lost count just how many times he's not exactly surprised you by showing up. (After all, you don't _have_ to answer his texts letting him know where you're currently holed up at and what're on the hunt for.)

He lets you push him up against doors, walls, desks, on the bed. You both know this. He could crush you. He could kill you and you could kill him. But when you're grasping at his stupid hair, your blunt nails digging into his scalp, and him biting your lip bloody, you both feel alive and all the rest of the world mercifully - thankfully - becomes a little less loud and a lot more dull.

Whereas your advances usually pan out, further companionship is another matter entirely. You fight with each other as well as you fuck, so playing nicely with the werewolf doesn't last long. You're both stubborn. You both have short fuses.

Peter Hale is also a dick.

You're sometimes astounded that the two of you last a week or two together. It's usually all bad take-out, subpar television reception and intermittent spats and fucking. Then again, when you're hunting something, when there's a target for aggression, you two manage much better.

You purposefully don't think about the wife you were arranged to marry - more of a partnership than any romance - but that suited the two of you just fine. She was the mother of your daughter and now you've lost them both.

He's lost nearly all of his family, a higher count than you, yes, but he still has his nephew at least. You think he's a part of Derek and Scott's pack. You don't detect any of the tell-tale reckless Omega vibes from him, but you never ask.

He's sleeping, looking peaceful and unhaunted (for now). You watch him, your legs off the hotel bed, feet touching the harsh carpet. Of course, you like his spark. After all, you remember looking at his scarred face, a shell of a man left behind and staring off into nothingness. At the time, you believed it would have been better for him to have perished in the fire. You had known that he'd have never wanted to live like that (if it could even be called living).

You consider, your hand lifting but not moving closer until you decide to just go for it. Your hand strokes down his arm, from his bicep to his wrist before you pull it away.

He's warm, and alive, and here and if he notices the touch, he pretends not to.

You're grateful.

~*~

No matter how bleak things get, you've never been the type to give up. You hadn't been lying when you explained that you compartmentalize. You stuff your pain and anger down. You pack it all in boxes, taping them shut and piling them high to leave for later - much later. But somehow, some fucking how, Peter's claws so effortlessly manage to get to them with very little effort.

"You know, I'm not going to be your next wife," Peter idly says as he picks up a take-out box and drops it into the hotel's already overflowing garbage bin (that's already entirely too small to be practical).

Your home had been clean and organized, but living on the road, checking in and and out of hotel rooms, sometimes it's hard to care. Often times it's hard to care. Victoria isn't here to get on your case and Allison isn't here to hold it together _for_.

"Don't," you warn. You're cleaning your .50 caliber pistol and it's rather tempting to just shoot Peter in one of his limbs. The bullets wouldn't be laced with wolfsbane, he'd be fine.

But why would he heed your warning, though? There's no fun in that.

"Oh, come on, you're still wearing your grief beard far too long and barely holding it together," he comments with a gesture of his hand to you at the desk. You're glaring at him but he's not going to stop. Your jaw is tight. You could reassemble your handgun-- "You probably wouldn't even pretend to groom if it wasn't for me stopping by - and thank you by the way for putting the minimal amount of effort in, I'm truly touched."

You're up and lunging at him and he's laughing as his back hits the wall. He likes your show of spirit. He's also not wrong. Pathetically enough, seeing Peter has you actually putting a meager amount of effort in showering and stopping at the local laundromat.

It's worse on your own. It's worse after you or he leaves. You know this, he knows this, but you don't want it to be said. It's not supposed to be said.

There's not much fight in you as his deceptively strong hands come to grip your shoulders and he's reversing the position in a flash of movements. His hands are on your wrists and he's lifting them and pinning you to the wall. He crowds into you and you feel the line of his cock against your ass. He grips hard enough that it will likely leave bruises but you don't mind. You struggle a little, but more so that you can _feel_ it. Like this, the danger and thrill reverberating between the two of you, you actually feel safe.

You're not afraid. His broad chest is against your back, his chin is fitting over your shoulder and he's whispering into your ear, "Ooo, you _do_ need it, don't you? Feisty as ever Chris, just how I like you."

"Fuck off," you spit out and your hands clench into fists. It's not a _no._ You feel the violence and arousal thrumming underneath your skin and the thoughts of your dead family and all your failures blow away like dust in the wind.

This is better. This has always been better and this fact has always tormented you like a phantom.

He laughs, more melodic than cruel. His laugh makes you want to slam his head into the wall but also be the only one who causes it. "Don't worry, I'll give you what you need," Peter murmurs and grinds his hips, obvious erection rubbing into you.

You're panting like a dog, practically vibrating underneath him. You don't like bottoming, neither one of you are too pleased to give up the control, but sometimes it's a goddamn necessity.

Maybe now is one of those times.

(You may hate that he's figured this out too.)

He first bites your nape with human teeth and you arc into him, desperate and encouraging. But it's when the fangs come out, it's when the pain increases that you finally groan and give yourself permission to give in.

It's always been easier to give in.

Wherever you bleed, his tongue is quick to lap it up. You often return the favor. Bloody hotels sheets, bloody clothing... It's rather commonplace now. 

You don't undress and he doesn't either. You're pushed to the bed, your pants and boxers are yanked down to your ankles and you rest your forehead on the pillow, your ass up in the air waiting. It's a position you hate, but _looking_ at Peter is complicated. This is the lesser of two evils.

Thankfully, Peter gets right to business. One lubed up finger pushes in and you instinctively clench against the intrusion.

Peter makes a _tsk tsk_ sound and you breathe deeply through your nostrils, forcing yourself to relax. If you don't, he'll chide and mock you which is far worse. You mostly go off into your head as he prepares you, his fingers pumping in and out, steadily stretching you. He knows better than to tease, he knows better than to go for your prostate.

What you need is hard thrusts, hips snapping, him fucking you ruthlessly, so Peter doesn't dally. One finger becomes two, and two eventually becomes three. The slick sounds of of him finger fucking you fill the room but you're quiet as you wait, body strung out. His other hand rubs up and down your lower back - underneath your shirt - and you try and block out the soothing action and how much it may actually mean to you.

His fingers are removed, emptiness left in its wake and you hear the sound of his zipper being dragged down. He coats his dick and then a hand spreads you open as he positions his cockhead against you.

He doesn't push in. You can practically feel the smarmy smile on his face as he merely _rubs_ and a skittering anticipation crawls over your skin.

"Bastard," you hiss, your hands clenching at the bedsheets now. Your shirt is sticking to you, the room's a little hot, the A/C needs to be turned on higher, but neither one of you is going to stop to get more comfortable.

(This has never been about comfortable.)

"Hey now, my parents were married," he retorts, voice not as light as he's trying for. You can hear the evident arousal.

He gives a pleased laugh under his breath before finally pushing in. He's not as rough as he could have been, it's more of a controlled onslaught than slamming right in. You're distantly aware of that fact, but it doesn't matter. It's engulfing pressure and intensity and a fullness and your eyes close tightly as your body sings with sensation.

His hands grip your hips and pull you back further onto his dick. When Peter bottoms out, you hear him moan. You feel his hips circle, his cock impossibly deep and you give a grunt.

"Come on, Peter," you urge.

Peter says nothing, vocally but answers with nearly pulling out and then snapping back inside of you. He picks up the pace, he fucks you rough and up until this point, your dick had only been half-hard, but as his thrusts become harder and faster, arousal does stake a claim on you.

While fucking, neither one of you talk much. Dirty talk beforehand? Sure. Fighting afterhand? Yes. But in these minutes, it's just skin slapping against skin. It's Peter groaning when you clench and shake. It's you struggling to not cry out as he folds over you and humps you into the mattress, all animalistic and perfect in a way you're afraid of.

Like this, his body laid overtop yours, his cock buried deep, his hips driving forward, Peter both takes and gives.

When you come, it feels ripped out of you, like being winded. It leaves you shuddering and biting your own lip to be quiet (which you still happen to fail at).

It's always felt this way, like he's stealing from you, forcing you... Muscles sore, wounds aching, but your mind is quiet.

His lips move against your ear but you don't listen to the words he says.


End file.
